Victim Mentality

Victim Mentality

By

Angelo Marcos

Copyright © 2017 Angelo Marcos

(see back of book for further copyright information)

About the Author

Angelo Marcos is a writer, comedian and actor, and a graduate of both law and psychology.

He has performed stand-up comedy all over the UK, and has acted in numerous short films and theatrical productions.

He co-wrote the musical 'Love and Marriage' which was performed at the Edinburgh Festival, and also contributed to the Royal British Legion book 'In the Footsteps of War'.

His articles and short stories have been published both online and in print, and his novels and short story collections are available in both ebook and paperback formats.

Find out more at http://www.angelomarcos.com

You can also get a free copy of his short story Killing Time by signing up to his email list at https://killingtimebyangelomarcos.wordpress.com

What readers are saying about Victim Mentality:

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I loved how this book was written! You really get into the head of the main character.

Goodreads reviewer

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This is one of the most interesting and entertaining books I've read in a long time!

Amazon reviewer

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Victim Mentality is a very clever and immensely enjoyable psychological thriller like nothing else I have read.

Goodreads reviewer

Table of contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Dear Reader

The Artist by Angelo Marcos

Being a functional member of society is overrated.

It’s also surprisingly easy to fake.

Gideon Matthias

Chapter 1

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For a moment – but just for a moment – everything stopped.

The bustle of the firefighters, the mumbled questions of the neighbours, even the flames themselves froze into a tableau as a single word screamed through the chill night air.

"Gideon!"

The disparate crowd turned in unison to see the source of the guttural shriek, a young woman wearing a baggy purple T-shirt and pink shorts.  She stood outside the house directly opposite the blaze and pointed a trembling finger at the furnace that was once a home.  Her eyes were wide, her hair a tangle of knots.

Everyone stared at her as though she were an escapee from an asylum. 

As if recognising that nobody had understood her earlier shout, she screeched again.

They’ve got a little boy!  Gideon!  He might be in there!

Firefighter and Officer-in-Charge Gabriel stared from under his standard issue yellow helmet with a mix of incredulity and fear.  The next decision was his. 

He looked from the raging fire to his crew, who fought to quell the ferocious blaze.  Huge jets of water arced through the air, cutting through the thick black smoke and landing in the midst of the inferno. 

The acrid smoke billowed and swirled into the air above the house – the fire announcing that the property was now under new management.

Anybody upstairs was dead, that much was obvious to Gabriel.  The gaping blackened hole – which he imagined had once been the main bedroom - was evidence of that.  The upper-front wall and windows - once a protective barrier from the world outside - had been mercilessly obliterated, the twisted white plastic of the window frames now curled into crude skeleton fingers. 

Gabriel watched as the flames danced like mischievous imps against the soot-stained backdrop.  The roof had caved in at the front of the house, as if bowing to the pressure of the oppressive smoke settling down from above.  The only life visible in the dark carcass were those capering imps, climbing what was left of the property while simultaneously devouring it.

In his mind Gabriel saw a terrified boy crouching against a wall as a tsunami of flames raced toward him, sucking the oxygen from his lungs to greedily feed itself.  Amassing the energy it needed to consume him, just like it did his parents...

Gabriel rushed toward the fire engine, grabbing two members of his crew – Jacobs and Harrison – on the way. 

We need to get in, he shouted, there’s a little boy.  Gideon.  We find him if we can.  We bring him out if we can.

Jacobs and Harrison nodded, and the three men instantly grabbed their breathing apparatus, knowing that in a fire like this their BA sets were a necessity.  Gabriel picked up his thermal imaging camera, and they headed into the house.

In the way that only firefighters can, they made a million judgements about the building as they worked, strategically pushing debris and rubble from the property in order to gain access while minimising the risk of further collapse. 

They needed to consider the integrity of the building at all times, and identify - then instantly evaluate - any new risks.  In short, they needed to make sure they weren’t walking into an unsurvivable situation. 

It didn’t take much to break through the already weakened door.  The wood splintered against Gabriel who, as he had done countless other times, said a silent prayer of gratitude for the protective equipment he wore as armour. 

From the doorway Gabriel could see the extent of the damage.  The small staircase had been completely obliterated, and the few sticks that remained upright were furiously ablaze.  The carcinogenic black smoke whirled in the room as the cool night air mixed with the rising heat of the flames.  The front room was a mass of rubble, smoke and raging fire.  The remains of a wardrobe lay strewn against smashed glass and chunks of brick.  The clothes were scattered around the scene like victims of some horrific massacre.  Water from the outside fire hose forced its way in through the hole that had been the ceiling, spraying against the back wall and sheeting down in an attempt to extinguish the dancing imps.

Gabriel surveyed the scene, and suddenly, horrifically, identified the misplaced upstairs bed and its charred inhabitants, who now lay cruelly scattered where they had likely sat relaxing only hours before.  Gabriel was especially grateful for his BA set.  The mask protected him not only from potentially lethal fumes, but also from the sickening smell of the occupants of the house – now mere meat in a furnace, burning down into nothingness.

Gabriel and his crew moved toward the back of the house, the searing temperature assaulting them from all sides.  It was an oppressive heat that only firefighters - and fire victims – knew.  A suffocating furnace, dehydrating and burning the atmosphere.  Inching closer, ever closer. 

The back room, which seemed to have been the kitchen and dining room, was almost as ravaged as the front.  The walls were covered in thick black ash, the appliances either melting or spontaneously igniting through the extreme heat.  Tiny flames poked their way through holes in the adjoining wall, anxious to get in and join the feast.

Looking at the destruction that was the ground floor, Gabriel knew there was no chance anybody could have survived.  If the child was upstairs, he would’ve died with his parents. 

In a short while, there wouldn’t even be an upstairs. 

And if the child had come downstairs as Gabriel had thought might be possible, there was no way he could survive in this environment.

Another firefighter who had gone ahead of Gabriel suddenly froze as a deafening crack exploded through the air.  He turned and faced Gabriel, an immediate panic in his eyes.  Before he could give a signal, Gabriel knew what the message would be.  Evacuate.  Evacuate now.

The crew turned and ran just as flaming debris fell from above, finishing off what was left of the stairwell – the same place Gabriel had been standing only moments before. 

The three men escaped through the doorway and watched as the house imploded in on itself, the flames claiming their final victory with piercing screeches and hisses of triumph. 

The ceiling in the back room caved with a deafening succession of cracks and crashes, dropping a small bed, toys and clothes into the inferno.  More fuel for the fire.

Gabriel watched helplessly as the property went through its death throes.  The girl in the purple T-shirt again screamed about saving Gideon, but it was too late.  Gideon couldn’t be saved any more than his parents.  He was either in the house and dead, or lucky enough to be sleeping at a friend’s house. 

Gabriel prayed for the latter, but suspected the former.

***

An hour later, as the flames were finally subdued by the water – losing the battle but winning the war – the sun rose and the damage could be assessed.  Smouldering and ruined rubble now replaced the house that had stood there a lifetime ago.  Most of the neighbours had gone back indoors, some crying over the death of their friends, others merely because tragedy had visited so close to them.

The girl in the purple T-shirt had stayed outside, as if standing guard.  She had rejected all offers of food or drink, and didn’t appear to be affected by the cold.  A vacant look haunted her face, as though seeing but not comprehending.  She was no longer screaming about saving Gideon, as if conceding that yes, it was too late. 

She often saw five-year-old Gideon Matthias around the neighbourhood, so small and innocent.  He’d had the misfortune to be born into a bad family.  Life had never given him a chance.  She remembered his perpetually messy hair, and the same hand-me-down clothes he was forever wearing.

Gideon! she suddenly screamed, not to attract help this time but through recognition. 

Looking through the ruins of the decimated house, a tiny figure crouched in the garden.  Gideon Matthias sat on his haunches, his tiny hands gripping his knees. 

His face – smoke blackened and streaked with tears – was a rictus of shock, and his bulging eyes stared into the darkness that had been his home.  Not quite believing, but in no position to deny.

His house was gone.  His parents were gone.

There was nothing and no one left.

Gideon Matthias was alone.

20 YEARS LATER

Chapter 2

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The coffee tasted horrible, but then why wouldn’t it?  This was a support group, not a convention of baristas.

Clearly the ‘support’ element of the group referred only to the discussion part of it, rather than the food or drink.  Hence, terrible coffee, weak tea, and biscuits which looked up at me as if pleading for death.

Support groups for chefs probably had nice food and drink at them.  Not that chefs needed support groups, I supposed.  Although constantly getting shouted at while slicing your own fingers and trying not to sneeze in the food must take its toll eventually.  I couldn’t be a chef.  Not that I’d be good enough anywa-

-words then, Nick?

The sound of my name broke me out of my thoughts.  Apparently it was my turn to speak.

Sorry, I stuttered.  Is it my...is it me now?

If you’d like, Carol - the group leader - said kindly.  She was one of those older ladies who was all warm smiles and thick jumpers.  An interesting look, although I wondered how she fared in the real world, which I knew to be less forgiving than this little school hall at 7pm on a weeknight. 

I stood up, ready to address this evening’s ‘audience’.  There were five of them in total, not including jumper-lady Carol.  I hadn’t got all of their names, although I’m pretty sure they’d all told me during the obligatory ice-breaker.  Paying attention isn’t a strength of mine unfortunately.

I remembered Harold’s name, mainly because he looked about my age but had a name better suited to an old man.  To be fair he did also dress like an old man - high-waisted jeans and a checked flannel shirt.  Maybe he was a lumberjack, and the name Harold was common in those illustrious circles - what did I know?  Maybe he was actually pretty trendy.

I remembered Judy as well, because when she’d told me her name I thought she’d said ‘Doody’ which is funny for obvious reasons.

Um, hello, I said. 

I’ve always been good at opening lines.

My name is Nick, but Carol already said that so I’m not sure why I repeated it.  Although given what we’re all here for, repetition shouldn’t be a surprise...

Jumper-lady Carol gave a laugh somewhere between nervousness and bemusement.  Or maybe there was some third option there that I hadn’t thought of.  Pity, maybe.

"So, I have... well, like everybody here I suppose, I have OCD.  And I actually have OCD, I’m not one of these people that go around saying they’re ‘a bit OCD’ because they like to make sure their books are all in order on the shelf, or because they don’t like touching door handles or whatever.  You know who I mean, the same people that reckon they’ve got a wheat intolerance because they choked on a bread roll five years ago."

Blank faces all round.  Great start.

So, I’ve had OCD since I was a child, which is when I started having thoughts that would explode into my head all by themselves.  It was like having two people in my head, a normal one and a complete bastard.  I’d be watching TV and suddenly have a thought of smashing the remote control against the table and then stabbing my dad to death with the broken, shard-studded end.  I’d see each little bit pierce his skin and spurt blood, and I’d keep lacerating and stabbing in spite of his screams.  Counting helped me to control the thoughts.  I still don’t really know why, but I’d count up to the number eight, and as long as I got to eight, it’d be ok.

I looked around again.  One of the women who had looked slightly bemused earlier was now nodding her head vigorously, as if I was describing her childhood, not my own.  I suddenly felt oddly exposed.

It’s ok, Nick, Carol said, take your time.

I nodded, swallowed hard enough to force the lump in my throat back down, and continued.

"Ok, so then I started having thoughts of other people hurting my family and my friends.  And I suppose my other compulsive behaviour came out of that.  It’s like a constant swirl of disgusting images and feelings inside my head, and the only way to stop them is to do some stupid thing that has no bearing on reality but for some reason makes me feel better.  I began thinking that I might actually be a psychopath, and that I wanted to hurt the people I cared about.  But then the thought of it made me so upset that I realised it couldn’t possibly be something that I wanted to do.  I’d actually made myself cry a few times thinking about this stuff.  But then, if I didn’t want to think of it, then why was I?  Obviously the thoughts came from my head.  So why would I be thinking them if I didn’t want to?"

My words echoed into the four corners of the sparse hall, which suddenly felt cavernous.  Normally when I ask a rhetorical question, some smartarse tries to answer it, but that wasn’t the case here. 

They genuinely seemed to know what I was talking about.

"As I’ve got older I’ve tried to just ignore everything, but as I said, it’s like having a loop of a horror film in my head.  Like there’s a little cinema screen in my mind playing torture and horror scenarios all tailored to my own personal fears.  If someone else was doing it, at least they might get some of the details wrong, but my own mind turns against me and uses all of the little fears and insecurities I have and forces me to watch them over and over until I feel like I can’t fucking breathe anymore and just want to fucking die.  Seriously, just fucking die.  It’s tempting isn’t it?  Ending it all and not having to worry about any of this traumatic bullshit ever again."

I got the feeling that I may have gone too far with the sharing at that point. 

Well, Nick, said Carol, thank you for contributing.  Your thoughts and feelings are very valid on this, as are everyone’s.

She gestured to the rest of the group, and nodded at a couple of them as though giving additional reassurance that the crazy man wouldn’t be talking for much longer.

Also, she continued, I think it’s very important that you realise that there is help for you.  We’re here for you.  Aren’t we everyone?

The group joined in with the clichés now, cautiously smiling at me and taking turns to tell me how important and valuable I am, and that I should remember that I’ve got friends here who understand.

No, I know, I said, "and, you know, thanks.  I just mean it’s exhausting, isn’t it?  Just completely emotionally and psychologically draining.  I end every day physically tired.  Fuck, most of the time I start the day physically tired and it just gets worse from there.  I don’t think other people really get that, how exhausting it is fighting your own mind all the time, and how horrible it is witnessing the torture and murder of the people you love over and over.  It’s fucked, is what it is.  Completely fucked.  That should be the name of our group here.  Fucked by Obsessive Compulsive Disorder."

A couple of the group looked genuinely afraid.

Thank you, Nick, Carol said delicately but with a definite maybe-stop-talking-now expression.  Thank you for sharing your story.  It can be very hard to open up and that can’t have been easy for you.

I tried to smile but it felt fake even to me.  I sat down and wiped my hand down my face, feeling a warm wetness under my eyes.  Had I been crying?  When had that happened?

You’re very eloquent, Nick, Harold suddenly said to me, leaning across from the other side of the circle.  You certainly have a way with words.  What is it that you do for a living?

I’m a stand-up comedian, I said, wiping the tears from my face.  I make people laugh.

Chapter 3

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The Fat Man raised the thin roll-up to his lips and took a long, deep drag. 

Leaning his head back, he exhaled the thick smoke toward the ceiling, watching as it snaked and curled around itself before disappearing into nothing. 

He dropped what remained of the roll-up onto the hard floor, and crushed it slowly and deliberately beneath his foot.  He scraped his shoe across it twice, causing a harsh grating noise as the hard rubber sandpapered against the rough cell floor. 

The three men standing in front of him exchanged concerned glances while trying to remain stoic.  If his aim had been to further intimidate, he had succeeded.

With cold eyes he glared at his captive audience, revelling in the fear emanating from them in spite of their best efforts to conceal it.  They were three of the best fighters in the prison – all of them having killed both in and out of the jail – yet they stood quivering like schoolboys in the headmaster’s office.  In a physical fight, any one of them could have finished him in under a minute.  But that wasn’t what they were afraid of; anyone can pull the trigger on a sleeping lion, but very few would do so if they knew the gunshot would awaken the rest of the pride.

The Fat Man coughed and the harsh, guttural noise ricocheted around the bare walls as though there were ten of him.

I’m gonna say this one more time, but that’s it, he spat.  "Find him who did this and bring him to me.  This is my nick.  No cheeky little bastard steals from me in my own house.  I’ve got that Dominic prick trying to fuck me on the outside, I’m not having anyone trying it on in here too."

His voice broke into a cough again.  The spittle flew from his mouth, arced through the air, and landed unceremoniously at the feet of his crew.  His face turned crimson as he choked, almost matching the hue of his bloodshot eyes.

He turned toward the first man. 

Rich, he spat in between coughs, why the fuck is this taking so long?

The man held up his hands.

I’m looking into it, I swear.  Nobody knows nothing about this.

The Fat Man launched into him and grabbed his collar.

Somebody knows! he half-shouted, half-choked into Rich’s face.  "Of course somebody knows! The man what done it definitely fucking knows!"

Rich recoiled from the onslaught of rancid breath being forced into his face, and was surprised at the strength of the Fat Man’s grip.  He was as strong as a man half his age.

Rich remained silent, waiting for his boss to move on.

The Fat Man let go, satisfied he’d made his point, and turned to the other two men.

"And what about you two, you worthless bastards?  Have you got any information or am I completely surrounded by useless fuckwits?"

The two men, feared across London but not in this cell, meekly shook their heads.  Or at least shook them as much as their thick, muscular necks would allow.

The Fat Man dropped himself down into his chair and fumbled for another pre-rolled cigarette.  By the time he’d fished one out of his pocket all three men held lighters up to his face, the flames dancing in front of him.

I only need one, don’t I?  I won’t have any eyebrows left at this rate.

The men hesitated, none of them wanting to be the first to extinguish their flame.  He pushed the first two lighters away and lit his roll-up from the third. 

He took a deep drag and exhaled the thick smoke, not at the ceiling this time but directly toward his men. 

When he spoke his voice was calmer, although the twitch in his eye and clenching of his fist indicated that his fury was very much still simmering below the surface.

Find who did this.  I know you’re good boys, that’s why you are where you are with me.  So find him.  Then make an example of him.  Is that clea-

There was a loud banging on the cell door.  The Fat Man’s face darkened, as if taking the interruption as a personal affront.

Fuck off, he shouted toward the door.

It’s me! a voice called out.

The Fat Man nodded at Rich.

Find out who ‘me’ is will you?  And teach him not to interrupt me again.

Rich swivelled round and pulled the heavy door open an inch.  He turned back to the Fat Man.

It’s Beecher.

What the fuck is a Beecher?

The one from the kitchens, with that silly hat.

"The fuck does he want?"

Rich stared at the Fat Man, awaiting further instructions.

Well, let him in so we can find out, Rich!  Fuck’s sake...

Rich pulled the heavy door to, and Benjamin ‘Beecher’ Reynolds entered the already cramped space.  He was a slight man who had been imprisoned for burglary some two years’ prior.  Until proving himself useful in the kitchen, it was doubtful he’d last very long at all in the prison. 

Rich slammed the door, and Beecher gave a slight jump.  The Fat Man tutted and shook his head.

The three fighters grinned at each other.  It was somebody else’s turn, they were off the hook.  For the moment.

Beecher fought to catch his breath, and bent forward as if having just run a marathon.

"What have you been doing, boy?  This is a nick not the fucking Olympic Stadium.  And this better be good.  I was talking.  You’ve got two seconds then Rich here is gonna teach you something."

I know... I know who it is, he spluttered, placing a spindly hand against his chest.  I know who done it.

The three fighters looked at the Fat Man.  He didn’t react, not externally at least.  He